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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732295">long flight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitenoisce/pseuds/whitenoisce'>whitenoisce</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>purple haired donghyuck agenda!! [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, but things get a lil weird, idk interpret that as you will, mark gets a big brain moment, purple haired donghyuck agenda!!, questionable timelines?, slight magical realism, some members show up for 0.5 seconds, this fic is jus him going in and out of his head</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:53:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,416</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitenoisce/pseuds/whitenoisce</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>mark sets out for the airport at 3am on a mission to be anywhere else but here. he takes the next flight going anywhere and finds himself going back to the place where it all started, thinking about a boy he hasn't seen in ten years. </p><p>or </p><p>mark spends 11 hours on a plane realizing how he done fucked up</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>purple haired donghyuck agenda!! [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>280</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><a href="https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1277747635990888448">art</a> by the incredible @aiijuns on twt! thank you so much for this gift baby! 🥺</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mark doesn’t know where he’s going.</p><p>He shuts the door of the taxi and stands by the pavement, watching the little yellow car become smaller and smaller until it disappears into the distance. It’s late October and even later into the night. The autumn chill has fallen over the city like a blanket, except it is perpetually damp and is wrung out at the most inopportune of times.</p><p>Rain runs a tight grip over Vancouver, and Mark’s fitted suit does nothing to quell the cold that nestles itself into his bones.</p><p>Stray droplets of rain latch themselves onto his left sleeve as he stares long enough into the distance for the lights of the city to begin blurring themselves in his vision. It’s easy like this. The steady pelting of rain onto the asphalt creates a dull whirring in his head, and if he closes his eyes it’s easy to pretend that there are no papers to sign and no mergers to be considered. Even with the occasional rumble of trolleys in the background, it is easy to pretend that he is suspended in a liminal veil, where he is neither here nor there.</p><p>It is only when the rain has soaked through his shirt sleeve that he opens his eyes and shifts his attention back to reality. It’s long enough now that the taxi driver has probably headed home and called it a night. Good for him, Mark surmises as he makes his way to the automatic sliding doors.</p><p>The air curtain tickles his damp arm when he enters, and the guard stationed by the metal detector eyes him with a curious gaze. He passes through the contraption with a benign beep. Mark offers a polite smile, and with only a curt nod the man welcomes him to Vancouver International Airport.</p><p>Mark is no stranger to the high ceilings and carpeted lounges of the place. Work has always given him both the burden and blessing of frequent travel, so much so that there is at least one carry-on luggage with a week’s worth of clothes stashed in one of his office cabinets at all times. Over the last decade, he has learned to find comfort in the overhanging gunmetal beams and the tranquil buzz of espresso machines, rolling wheels, and flight announcements.</p><p>But today there is no buzz in the air. Vancouver International Airport at 3 AM is a cold, unloving thing. It doesn’t welcome Mark the way it normally does, and instead asks him a question that hangs in the cold still air. The sound of his shoes on the tiled surface is crisp as it reverberates in the silence, but it seems to be the wrong answer. Mark feels like he’s in the belly of a beast, waiting for the perfect opportunity to bellow and throw him up into the cold damp street.</p><p>Unknowingly, Mark speeds up as he makes his way to the large screen displaying the day’s departures and arrivals. <em>London-Heathrow. Madrid. Shanghai-Pudong. Hamburg. Chicago.</em> He only catches these before the screen simulates an old split-flap display and reshuffles into a different set of locations. For a second he considers closing his eyes and heading to the first destination his eyes land on, but scraps the idea altogether. Instead he steels himself as he fishes his passport out of his breast pocket, heading for the nearest information desk.</p><p>He wills his mind to imagine the look of shock and disbelief on Johnny’s face come Monday morning when he finds his office empty. He chuckles to himself and feels his nerves simmer down.</p><p>The lady behind the counter greets him with a warm smile.</p><p>“Hello, how may I help you?”</p><p>Mark tightens the grip on his passport, fingers leaving an imprint on the navy blue vinyl.</p><p>“Are there any flights leaving in the next thirty minutes?”</p><p>If she was any bit shocked at his words, it doesn’t show. She simply asks him to wait a moment before turning to her screen, fingers fast and eyes sharp while narrowing her search. Her voice was modulated to fall within the caring side of neutrality. Mark feels a little less unwelcome in the deserted airport, but still barely tolerated.</p><p>Not a minute passes before she smiles back up at Mark.</p><p>“Thank you for waiting. There’s a 0400 flight to Lithuania and a 0355 headed for Melbourne.”</p><p>Mark considers both and decides he’d survive just fine at any one of them before the attendant speaks again. “Unfortunately it’s a full house for Lithuania and Melbourne has just finished boarding,” she says with an apologetic tone. She darts her eyes back to the screen as if to double check, fingers re-adjusting filters.</p><p>Mark is generally unperturbed, but perhaps just a little disappointed. He knows he is in no actual rush. There’s no wedding to attend on the other side of the world or a business proposal to pitch three hours away. Deep inside he knows that worse comes to worst, he’ll take any available flight going anywhere. He just wants to get out of here. It’s just that he’d much rather spend as little time as possible waiting in between, in case he stews in the murky bath water of his mind for too long and convince himself it’s a terrible idea. Not that it isn’t, but he’s already here. He doesn’t want to get cold feet.</p><p>“If you don’t mind waiting, there’s a–”</p><p>Mark doesn’t wait to hear the rest of her sentence before sliding his passport over the counter.</p><p>“Get me on the next available flight, please.”</p><p>She studies him for just a second, before taking his passport and flipping to find his data. Perhaps she’s no stranger to lost souls and last minute flights, and people like Mark come here looking for answers to questions they don’t know far more often than you think.</p><p>Vancouver has been home for the last ten years, but somewhere between the high rise buildings and the nights out at the pub, a lump has managed to lodge itself down its throat that no amount of alcohol can wash down. There seems to be less and less reason to exist when he lives his life in a cycle of day ins and day outs. No variation, no purpose. He feels like he’s covered in bubble wrap sitting on top of a hill, unmoving and out of touch with reality.</p><p>The office had already emptied itself out for the day when the thought planted itself in his head. It’s ridiculous, really. He has no destination, no plan, no prep. But in the silence of the office and the growing anguish in his body, leaving suddenly sounded like a good idea. The next thing he knew he was in a cab with only his passport, phone, and wallet on his person, telling the driver to floor it to the airport.</p><p>Mark is snapped out of his reverie when the lady leans over and slides the ticket towards him a couple minutes later.</p><p>“Flight KE72 leaves in an hour and ten,” she says, encircling the departure time with red ink. “This is your gate,” she marks the ticket again, “and it closes 30 minutes before departure.”</p><p>Mark lodges the ticket between the pages of his passport and offers a quiet thanks to the lady. She looks at him like she knew Mark wasn’t listening, and she doesn’t mind.</p><p>“No problem,” she says with a knowing smile. “Enjoy your flight to Seoul, Mr. Lee.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://twitter.com/aiijuns/status/1277747635990888448">art</a> by the incredible @aiijuns on twt! thank you so much for this gift baby! 🥺</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mark ends up sitting at the very last row of the cramped aircraft, right by the cabin lavatories. He figures this is what he gets for squeezing into a flight at the very last minute. The last of the passengers are trickling in, and he finds comfort in the cool of the window to his left. The seat between him and the old man by the aisle has yet to be occupied, and Mark hopes it will stay that way when the gates finally close.</p><p>The plane is small, even by airbus standards. The cabin splits evenly in three with narrow walkways in between, and from his vantage point, Mark can count each and every row from where he sat to where the plane began. The cabin smells of recycled air tinged with Febreeze. Mark shifts in his seat, trying to get comfortable in the unforgiving blue cushions of economy to no avail. </p><p>It’s a little past four am, and on a regular day Mark would be bundled up in the comforts of his Egyptian cotton sheets in yet again another fitful sleep. But today isn’t a regular day, and instead of luxury linens, Mark only has this one by two meter space to call home for the next eleven hours. His left sleeve has long since dried, and has now taken to scratching at his skin the way seaweed warps when reconstituted only to be dried again. He wishes he had half the mind to at least get his carry-on from where it was perched in his office cupboard, but he knew he could only afford to grab his phone and wallet before leaving for fear that he’d chicken out if he thought about it a second longer. He wonders if economy long haul flights offer at least blankets and makes a mental note to ask an attendant later.</p><p>Only when the lights dim for taxi does Mark feel himself relax. The seat next to him remains empty after the final call, and as he rests his arm freely on the shared arm rest he finds himself overcome with a strange exhilaration. The realization of his actions. The gravity of the situation. </p><p>He’s really doing this, he thinks. Wherever did he find the courage to just up and leave without a destination nor an objective in mind? He knew it wasn’t going to be permanent. He has a business to run and colleagues to keep in check. But for now he relishes in the fact that he will remain uncontacted for hours, days, even weeks if he dares. Sure, Johnny will have his head on a platter when he returns, but if he didn’t leave he honestly thinks he’d go crazy. </p><p>Mark feels a certain peace bloom inside himself. A quelling of an indeterminable buzz that has been ransacking his brain and disrupting his sleep for as long as he can remember. He doesn’t know what awaits him after eight thousand miles, but for once he can’t find it in himself to care. What matters right now is he’s finally leaving everything behind, even just for a moment. </p><p>The intercom crackles for a second before a stewardess is welcoming them aboard Korea Air. Suddenly, Mark is overcome with a sense of deja vu. He’s been here before, but when? His brain politely supplies him a memory of the same tough blue seats and the jingle of an oddly catchy idol group safety video from ten years ago. </p><p>A shiver runs through him. </p><p>That’s right. Once upon a time, he bought a one-way ticket to Canada and never looked back. He thought it was genius. There was nothing tying him down to Korea after graduation. His parents were off exploring rainforests, and his degree was just about as useful anywhere else in the world as it was in Seoul. He’d convinced himself that it was an opportunity to do the “exciting thing” for once, but even to his own ears it didn’t sound quite right. </p><p>It was funny how ten years later, he’d find himself on his way back in his moment of weakness. As if the world willed him to make up for the sorry excuse of a goodbye he bid Seoul when she needed him the most. Even then, Mark knew he didn’t leave to finally pick something exciting for himself. He was running away, but from what, he never allowed himself to find out. </p><p>To Mark’s delight, he was always good at compartmentalizing. He thinks it comes naturally to busy men. If a thought didn’t serve him, he would box them up and store them at the back of his head for another day. More often than not, he’d never return to them and they’d just prune themselves out of existence. </p><p>The plane begins to take on speed on the runway, rumbling with the anticipation to take off.</p><p>Today, Mark Lee is not a busy man. The same way today is not a regular day. So for once, Mark closes his eyes and lets his mind peer into the boxes. </p><p>All of a sudden, Mark is 21 years old, a business management major in the spring of his senior year of college. It is Seoul in 2019, and beside him is a boy and he is beautiful. Mark can see it so vividly like a movie in his mind, the boy against the setting of the sun, casting a halo around his long brown hair. </p><p>"What do you think of purple?" the boy in his arms asks, smiling and his eyes crinkling into slits. </p><p>Mark doesn't know where he supplied a voice that felt so real and accurate. A gasp punches itself out of his gut, and he opens his eyes. </p><p>The plane takes off, its rumbling loud in Mark’s ears. Outside the window there is only the darkness of a dawn that has yet to break. He takes a deep breath as he stares out into their ascent. </p><p>
  <em>Lee Donghyuck, where are you now?</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s a little odd that he thought of Donghyuck so suddenly after all these years. How long has it been since he last saw him? Since he last thought of him, even. Is he doing well? Donghyuck had always been the type of person who made good decisions, and had a good head on his shoulders. His presence made others around him feel at ease. So much so that if Donghyuck said things were going to be okay, you best believe it was. </p><p>He’d always found it a little strange, how Donghyuck was so sure of everything. </p><p>Half the time they were ordinary things, like knowing exactly when to take the brownies out of the oven, or always having an impressive approximation of the time whenever Jeno asked. But many times, Mark would just find himself at a loss for words, staring at the boy in disbelief for something outrageous he had just said. </p><p>The thought brings him back to a curious summer day in his senior year. It was the hottest heat index recorded in Seoul for that summer so far, and they had taken refuge in a newly opened cafe on campus. The air conditioning units were brand new, and with their iced lattes Mark remembers finally being comfortable for the first time since he woke up. They had been studying for a couple hours now when Donghyuck looked up from his philo readings, sniffed at the air, and proclaimed they best headed home. </p><p>Mark doesn’t know exactly how he reacted but he can only imagine his face to be one of pure stupefaction. It was still hot out, and frankly it was probably hotter out there right now than when they started. He could only sputter out an incredulous <em> why tho </em> before Donghyuck gave him a small smile and said a big storm was coming. He even said it in the way that viral grandma on YouTube did, so Mark had no idea whether or not to take him seriously.</p><p>But it seems like Donghyuck had made up his mind and was in the middle of stuffing his pastel highlighters into his backpack, sipping the last few drops of expensive university coffee. He says something about picking up hot chocolate from the convenience store on the way back to the dorms, and Mark thinks the heat had finally gotten to his head. </p><p>He follows his boyfriend out of the cafe into the sweltering heat anyways. </p><p>True enough, not even an hour later found the entire campus drenched in a heavy vengeful rain. The quad had flooded over and it was impossible to get anywhere without getting soaked, even with an umbrella if you had one. Half the student population was stranded in the buildings well into the night, but not Mark and Donghyuck. They were tucked safely in the comforts of their warm room, cuddled comfortably on the couch. They had long changed into sweats and were re-watching The Good Place on Netflix, drinking the hot choco they had picked up on the way home. </p><p>They were halfway through the first season when Mark realised that it was finally dark out, but the rain had yet to stop. He tilts his head down to look at Donghyuck, whose eyes were fixated on the screen where Eleanor and Chidi were fighting over Janet’s killswitch. Mark thinks about how Donghyuck could have known about the rain. It was no drizzle. It was a steady assault on their windowpanes and probably to the lives of everyone else stuck dealing with the cold and damp draft outside. </p><p>Perhaps Donghyuck should have taken up Atmospheric Sciences instead of Psychology, but before Mark could consider the arduous process of shifting majors, the sound of Donghyuck giggling shook him out of his reverie. </p><p>“I can hear the cogs turning in your head,” Donghyuck said, eyes unmoving from the laptop screen.</p><p>In hindsight, that was also just another case of Donghyuck serendipitously knowing when something was up. </p><p>“How did you know?”</p><p>“About what?” </p><p>“You know what I mean,” Mark says with a roll of his eyes. Donghyuck was just messing with him at this point. It wasn’t the first time Donghyuck had been right about something odd, but every single time left him even more perplexed than the last. “It’s the hottest day of the year, it couldn’t have been a lucky guess.” </p><p>Donghyuck tore his eyes away from where Chidi was mourning the ethical consequences of his actions to look at Mark. </p><p>The light of the screen casts a shadow on the younger boy’s face, bathing him in a sea of blue. Despite the distortion, the look on Donghyuck’s eyes was unmistakable. Mark had never seen Donghyuck look like this before. Troubled, almost on the verge of ...sad. The storm raging outside had found their way to Donghyuck’s pools of brown, but in a split second they were back to normal. The rain had returned outside their window and Mark was left staring into the eyes of a summer child. </p><p>“I just know sometimes,” Donghyuck says with a small smile. </p><p>It was obvious that Mark didn’t buy it one bit, so Donghyuck took it upon himself to kiss Mark senseless until they were panting and out of breath and the frown lines had disappeared from Mark’s forehead. With a soft giggle Donghyuck let his head back down to where it was perched above Mark’s chest, question long forgotten. </p><p>It wasn’t the answer Mark wanted to hear, but he knew the conversation was over. He wasn’t going to get more out of Donghyuck tonight, so he made a mental note to ask him about it in the future. He melts back down into the couch and watches the rest of the series well into the wee hours of the morning. Classes ended up being suspended for the next two days, and Mark knew better than to question blessings. </p><p>For a second, Mark wished that the seat next to him weren’t empty and had Donghyuck perched on it instead, curling himself around Mark’s arm like he used to. If Donghyuck was here, he would tell him that things were going to be fine. </p><p>And as with the natural order of the universe, things did <em> not </em>have any other choice but to be fine. </p><p>But the seat next to Mark is empty, and Donghyuck isn’t here. He hasn’t been here for a long time. A small voice at the back of his head asks him, <em> when was the last time things were fine? </em></p><p>The question lingers in his mind as he watches the silvery wisps of the clouds paint the navy blue of the sky outside. He picks the question apart. Word per word and letter by letter. He turns it inside out, and back. Jumbling the words in different combinations, picking apart the strokes in hopes that attaching them in arbitrary angles would magically give way to an answer. </p><p>In the end he gives up and leaves the question mangled on a pile in his head that looked awfully like a freshman orientation map of Seoul National University. </p><p>Mark thinks back to that day and wonders if he should have pressed on further. What else could Donghyuck have known? What other mysteries of the universe hid behind the brown of his eyes? </p><p>Mark always jokingly said that Donghyuck must’ve been living life in reverse, meeting him halfway from the other side. He and Donghyuck would laugh about it then, but now Mark thinks he might have been onto something this entire time. Donghyuck was always one step ahead of everyone, after all. Did he know what he was getting into? <em> Did he know things were going to turn out this way? </em></p><p>Mark grips the seat as he braces himself for the dive down memory lane. </p><p>It was a short stint of less than six months, but to Mark it felt longer than any of his other relationships, some of which had spanned years over the course of high school. There was a Kang Mina here, a Wong Yukhei there, and an innumerable amount of nameless bodies in between. But not one of them was quite as striking as Lee Donghyuck. Of course, how could anyone compete with the sun himself?</p><p>He doesn’t even know how he ended up with someone like Donghyuck in the first place. Mark had never considered himself as anything spectacular. Not then, and most definitely not now. The last ten years have succeeded in rounding out his square edges, but trying to convince himself that he was something special was like picking out a chip from a bag and calling it the superior Dorito. </p><p>Lee Donghyuck on the other hand, was a force of nature and a sight to behold. Beautiful and exciting and a whole new world but also calming, grounding, and requires no explanation. He was the whole spectrum of colors abstracted into one beautiful beast of a creature. And Mark always felt like they weren’t in the same league. </p><p>Whereas Mark easily got lost in a sea of blacks and browns, it was always easy to spot Donghyuck even from afar with his whole head of purple that he dyed a month into their relationship. It varied in shade depending on the light and the amount of fucks Donghyuck decided to put into the redying it at the beginning of the month. </p><p>It was a dark raspberry jam when newly dyed, under the harsh white light of their shared bathroom. An orchid under the sun, fluttering in the breeze of the campus quad on a fine spring day. During all nighters, it was a bundle of eggplants in the market the way he tied it up on top of his head. And at night when the world is quiet, Donghyuck’s hair was a regal crown of amethyst, fanning out across the bone white pillows as he fell apart by Mark’s hands.</p><p>During one of those nights, after they had spent a better part of the evening tormenting their neighbors in honor of celebratory weekend sex, Mark and Donghyuck had cuddled themselves into a mess of limbs against the headboard. Donghyuck’s hair was pushing pastel this time around, and Mark distinctly remembers this because Donghyuck normally never allowed his hair to go any lighter than a periwinkle, claiming the chalky shades “washed him out.” </p><p>Mark wanted to ask him about it, but the softness of Donghyuck’s voice asking what time he needed to be up tomorrow snapped him out of his reverie. </p><p>“I dunno, assembly’s at 10?” </p><p>Donghyuck lets out a groan of disapproval, nuzzling his face into Mark’s chest. </p><p>“Why do these things always have to be scheduled at ass o’clock? It’s just grad rehearsal. They’re just going to tell you where to sit and rot for the next four hours. Is it so hard to schedule something in the afternoon?”</p><p>Mark snickers, earning him a glare from the younger man. </p><p>“Ten is not ass o’clock if you stop playing Overwatch ‘til 4 in the morning,” Mark says with a lazy smile, head still muddled by the post-orgasm haze. </p><p>“You only say that because you’re absolute trash at it.”</p><p>“I can’t be bad at something I don’t play?” </p><p>“Hmm? Sounds like something trash would say.” </p><p>Mark just kissed the top of Donghyuck’s head as a response, lips smiling into the kiss. A comfortable silence falls upon the room as Mark cards his fingers through Donghyuck’s hair, letting the pale strands slip through his fingers like sand before scooping them up again only to do the same. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. </p><p>It’s comfortable like this, and Mark could feel his eyes grow heavy with sleep. He was just about ready to pass out when he felt a hand reach for his own, lacing their fingers together.  </p><p>“Will you come to my graduation?” Donghyuck suddenly asks, honeyed fingers tightening slightly over Mark’s pale ones. It was not a question Mark was expecting to hear from Donghyuck. If anything, he should be asking him, not the other way around. Donghyuck still had two semesters left of slaving over journal articles and APA citations before graduating. He hasn’t even finished his last junior term yet, so Mark felt like it was out of the blue. </p><p>He chalks it up to Donghyuck just being a couple steps ahead of everyone, as always. But if Mark could go back in time, he’d smack the shit out of himself for missing the question lodged in between the fingers rubbing circles on the back of his hand. <em> Do you think we’ll still be together by the time I graduate? </em> </p><p>Mark (then, at least) was too exhausted to think of a proper response so he choked up a non-committal, “only if you come to mine,” missing the way Donghyuck freezes for a split second before letting out a soft chuckle. </p><p>“Not if it’s anytime before noon,” the younger man says as he moves up to shut the bedside lamp, and they go to sleep. </p><p>As fate would have it, they break up two weeks before Mark’s graduation. </p><p>Part of Mark wished he had time to grieve, but the next two weeks was a flurry of last minute assemblies, outgoing paperwork, and toga rental errands. His days passed in a blur, and by the time he came to, he was already on his way down the stage, prop diploma in hand with the dull percussion of the graduation march in his ears. </p><p>He looked to the sea of indigo robes and all he could think of at that moment was that he needed to get the fuck out of here. Whether it meant the auditorium or the country, he had no idea. He looks for a sign, any sign. And thinks he sees a flash of purple in the corner of his eyes. But when he looked up, it was gone. </p><p>Mark thinks it must have been a trick of the light. Besides, it was 8 AM. </p><p>The version of Mark ten years later that sits 40,000 feet up the air, has exactly two (2) thoughts ruminating in his head:</p>
<ol>
<li>He is the dumbest person he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing. And –</li>
<li>Donghyuck must have seen this coming from a mile away. </li>
</ol><p>It doesn’t even matter how Donghyuck found out. The younger male was always unnervingly keen and sharp. What matters is that Mark didn’t, and that has made all the difference. </p><p>He looks back to all the sad eyes and loaded questions, and feels himself slump against his seat. What more could he have missed? </p><p>Mark closes his eyes, overcome with a certain brand of frustration he hasn’t felt in a long time. It smiled at him, saccharine sweet in the way it dangled the past right in front of his face, knowing full well there was nothing he could do to change it. </p><p>It plays his memories so vividly in his head, making him reach out, only for the scene to ripple before his eyes like a mirage in the hot desert sun. Mark knows it’s no use, but he couldn’t help but reach out again and again until his arms fell off and the sun has long gone down. Even then, the man in the mirror with the agency to change things is untouchable, safeguarded by layers and layers of the years gone by.</p><p>A voice filters through the speakers, and in his stupor Mark vaguely makes out instructions to keep seatbelts fastened. Some talk of turbulence apparently, but Mark doesn’t care. His body feels heavy, the events of the last 24 hours finally catching up to him. The sky outside was pushing blue. </p><p>The plane begins to jostle, and Mark falls into a deep dreamless sleep. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mark wakes to the sound of rolling carts on the carpeted floor and light early morning chatter. It’s five hours later and the plane is serving breakfast, going through each row handing out trays and serving coffee in graceful efficiency.</p><p>The sun hangs bright in the sky, blinding Mark a little bit, but he makes no move to shut the blinds. His mouth is dry, but it’s the most refreshed and well rested he’s felt in months, in this tough chair and recycled air and the sound of pouring water in the distance. </p><p>He arches his back, revelling at the sounds of air bubbles popping in his joints. He doesn’t remember the last time he had such peaceful sleep. Every night found him tossing and turning across multiple duvet changes, different weighted blankets, and his steadily increasing thread count. Despite all of these, he never seemed to sleep for more than two hours at a time. The frustrating wait to fall asleep only to be unceremoniously woken up again tired him out, and when the sun finally rose his body would only feel heavier than it did the night before. </p><p>It was an awful cycle he had no idea how to break, and recently he had just resorted to intentionally staying up doing brainless tasks, waiting for his body to pass out by necessity. Last night was one of those nights, but he didn’t expect to wake up feeling any different. Mark savors the feeling, not knowing when he’d have the chance to experience it again. </p><p>The cart rolls over to their row and Mark watches the old man by the aisle grumble to the stewardess about airlines not serving meals acclimated to their destination time zone. Seoul is ahead of Vancouver by 16 hours. If the man had his way, none of them would be getting anything to eat seeing as it’s 1:30 in the morning where they’re headed. Mark could only offer a small smile to the stewardess as he received his tray. </p><p>It’s simple fare. A concerningly pale mushroom and cheese omelette with a side of potatoes, a cup of yogurt, and an assortment of fruits in another bowl. He feels his mouth water at the limp omelette, trying to remember the last time he ate. He can’t. The meal is tastier than it looks, but even water is a treat to a starving man. </p><p>He was halfway through his blueberry yogurt when the old man by the aisle huffs a little too loudly. Mark was afraid he’d cause a ruckus, but soon realized that there was a mirth in his eyes as he flagged down one of the crew members. He requests for more fruits, having ravished his bowl. When the lady walks away, he turns to Mark. </p><p>“I never really liked fruits you know, but tangerines are something else,” the man quietly chuckles to himself. “I didn’t know it was in season!” </p><p>“Tangerine season starts in October,” Mark replies before he could stop himself. “It must’ve been the season’s first picks.” </p><p>“Oh?” The old man looks at him curiously, eyeing him up and down. “I didn’t peg you to be the tangerine picking type.” </p><p>Mark wants to tell him he wasn’t, that he only ever heard stories of it from a boy who never shut up about them once upon a time. But he doesn’t get to because the lady comes back with not one, but two sealed fruit bowls, stealing the old man’s attention and effectively ending the conversation. </p><p>It’s only good, because Mark isn’t sure he wants to talk about the box he forgot to close in his head before he slept. The contents inside that were left untouched for what seemed like lifetimes probably oscillated in excitement as he slept, knocked over by the turbulence and finally spilled into his reality. Now they’ve manifested in his fruit and he doesn’t know how to put them back. He doesn’t know if he wants to put them back. </p><p>He abandons his half eaten yogurt– suddenly too sour for his liking, and reaches out for the bowl of fruits on his tray. His fingers go past the chunks of watermelon, picking out a small slice of the citrus fruit from the depths of the pile. It weighs almost nothing in his hands, but it taunts heavy on his shoulders. He wonders if the universe was messing with him, serving him tangerines in a bowl with watermelons as if to show him what could have been but cannot be. </p><p>He takes one in his mouth and suddenly Donghyuck is on his tongue and in the air and in all the corners of his head, asking him in high pitched excitement, “<em>Isn’t it the best?!</em>” They were at the campus cafeteria, where Donghyuck sat him down one day cradling a whole bunch of tangerines to his chest like a baby. </p><p>After having found out that Mark hasn’t tasted one in his life, Donghyuck made it his personal mission to “remedy Mark’s sorry existence” by calling his grandparents in Jeju to have some shipped directly from the source. A week later, a five-kilo shipment of the sweetest tangerines landed on Donghyuck’s doorstep, just as picking season was coming to a close. </p><p>Mark chews and chews until the taste has long gone from his tongue. He swallows and the fruit slithers down his throat and then there was nothing. </p><p>He steels himself for a second, before taking another slice. He is ready this time. Mark takes a bite, cutting it in half and in his ears he hears the clear sound of tinkling wind chimes. The juice explodes in his mouth the way it does, coating his mouth with a sweetness that feels like a promise. He takes the second bite and the sound completes into the timbre of Donghyuck’s unabashed laughter as they stumble into their room drunk after a night out with friends. </p><p>The sound is gone as fast as it came, and at the last slice Mark feels like Aladdin on his final wish. He pops the fruit into his mouth and waits. For a second there is nothing, but as the sweet of Jeju spring explodes in his mouth he hears a voice in whisper.</p><p>
  <em> I love you, Minhyung.  </em>
</p><p>Mark wishes he were anywhere else. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mark doesn’t have the privilege to complain about the way things turned out, seeing as he was – frankly speaking, wholly responsible for everything that happened. But for a second, he wonders if there was anything he could have done to cushion the blow, to make it hurt less, to extend the happily ever after.</p><p>He spends a long time in silence, racking his brain for the different ways it could have turned out. It feels a lot like rediscovering a childhood video game. Picking it up again years after, realizing there were literally 13 other endings to choose from if you had played your cards differently. You take the console in your hands, filled with a new sense of purpose as you go through each and every alternate ending. </p><p>Mark thinks of the words he could have said, reactions he could have gotten, signs he missed, and everything in between. He looks into all the side quests, all the characters, enters all the apothecaries and leaves no stone unturned. He thinks until his head was splitting open and all the coffee he consumed had spilled out into a puddle beneath his feet. But it was no use. In the end, all roads lead to Rome. </p><p>There was no going around it, and if he was being honest he thinks he was giving himself far too much credit for even considering that things could have gone without blowing up in his face. He doesn’t know what to do now that he has the gift of hindsight, so it was definitely asking for too much from his old self to know better. </p><p>At 21, Mark was insecure and overthinking, but he also thought he had everything under control. He boxed his worries up as he did, and piled them on top of each other in hopes to forget about them. He felt fully capable, but only because it’s the oldest he’s ever been, not knowing it was also as young as he was going to get. He had so much left to learn but thought he had learned enough, and that was his ruin. </p><p>Years later he wonders if it was punishment from the gods, to give him a flower that burned too brightly. Was it in hopes that he’d burn himself at the touch, to knock him down a peg? Were they surprised or did they see it coming, the way he kept holding on until the fires consumed him and the flower wilted in his grasp? </p><p>Mark never truly believed in higher beings the way Donghyuck did, but at that moment he found himself whispering a silent prayer to whoever was listening. An appeal to the gods that the flame he snuffed out had recovered from the momentary gust of bad wind, and continued to burn brightly for the rest of eternity. That this beauty is graced with the presence of those who will continue to fan the flame, letting it grow past its small sparks into a full blown hearth whose embers would light up the whole world. </p><p>And this time Mark would only look. This time Mark would never touch. </p><p>He thinks back to that day two weeks before graduation. How little it took for his pile of boxes to come crashing down before his very eyes. He didn’t realize he had stacked them so high. How long had they been teetering dangerously like that? How long had he been on borrowed time? </p><p>It only took a small push, as with most things that didn’t stand on solid ground.</p><p>It was a phone call, Mark remembers. The incessant ringing loud in his ears as he stirred awake, one arm feeling around blindly for the source of the noise. He found it on the other side of the bed, not entirely sure how it got there. But it doesn’t matter, he just wants to go back to sleep. He swipes to kill the call, but his fingers slipped and he ends up picking it up instead. </p><p>“The fuck do you want,” he spits out, too annoyed and sleepy to be bothered with pleasantries. </p><p>An unfamiliar laughter filters itself through the speakers, and before Mark could register what was happening the owner of the voice speaks up again. </p><p>“You,” the man replies, point blank. “Haven’t I made that obvious baby?” </p><p>“What?” Mark wonders if he’s still dreaming, because nothing makes sense. He checks the caller ID, but it’s an unknown number. “Who is this?” </p><p>The man laughs again and Mark decides it’s not a sound he likes hearing. </p><p>“Don’t play coy with me, baby. We’ve been at it for months now.”</p><p>“Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.” </p><p>“Donghyuck-ah,” Mark freezes. “Don’t fuck with me. I know you want it, otherwise you wouldn’t have picked up hmm?” </p><p>It felt like a bucket of ice cold water was unceremoniously dumped on his head, and suddenly Mark was wide awake. An unsettling feeling was growing in his gut, rearing its ugly head and lodging itself in his throat. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. </p><p>“You know where to find me. Dress light, you won’t need it,” the man says with a snicker, and the line goes dead. </p><p>Mark stares at the phone in his hands, at a loss for words. He catches the lockscreen for a second– a candid photo of him mid-laughter from better days, before the screen dims down and goes black.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mark doesn’t know how long he sits there, but it must’ve been long enough that Donghyuck has gotten back from his morning lecture. The younger man enters the room with a rustle of paper bags from the cafe they frequent, a takeout of breakfast for two. </p><p>“I’m back! That lecture was a mess, I wish I didn– Oh, you have my phone! Thank God! I thought I lost it on the way to class.” </p><p>Donghyuck plops himself down the bed with a bounce, reaching out to take his phone from where it sat on the bed. He was gonna see if Renjun left him anything interesting to read overnight, but before he could even check his notifications, Mark was already on his feet. </p><p>“Mark?” Donghyuck asked, a little worried but mostly confused. The only response he got was the heavy thumping of Mark’s feet on the ground as he paced around the room, picking up his belongings along the way. He called out his name again, but Mark’s head was elsewhere. </p><p>It’s crazy how many loopholes there were in this story, if only Mark stopped to think about it. How Donghyuck was with him every single night and how Donghyuck has been getting calls from random numbers recently and how the man on the phone couldn’t even tell their voices apart. </p><p>Mark recalls all the terrible words he let loose that day, and finds himself wincing years later at the harsh accusations knowing they were absolutely baseless. He took the stranger's words at face value and used them as an excuse to prove himself right, that he didn’t deserve Donghyuck and it only made sense that the latter would eventually find gratification elsewhere. </p><p>Donghyuck tried to explain, but Mark didn’t care. He was too busy jamming clothes into the first suitcase he found and keeping one ear open for anything that Donghyuck could say that would prove his point. </p><p>Everything else faded into the background, and the walls could only watch in pity. The way tears spilled from Donghyuck’s eyes as he begged Mark to calm down, that there was really no one else and that he was all Donghyuck needed. The way he blocked Mark’s way, preventing the latter from erasing any trace of his existence in their shared home. The unmistakable look of hurt on his face when Mark called him a liar, and the way the light died in his eyes soon after. </p><p>Mark only saw what he wanted to see. Donghyuck’s quiet resignation, the way he let him go. Donghyuck had been silent for a while, and Mark only took this as an admission of guilt. He already had a foot out the door when he heard it. </p><p>“Hyung.” If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he would have missed it. It was soft, but unmistakable. Mark found himself looking back before his mind could say no. </p><p>Donghyuck stood there unmoving, still clad in the same sweatshirt he was wearing the night before when he fell asleep in Mark’s arms. Mark finds himself wishing he had held him tighter, not knowing it would be the last time. He stares. Even with his eyes red from crying and his hair matted down, Donghyuck is still so beautiful it hurts.</p><p>“Let’s meet again.” Mark watches as Donghyuck’s lips tremble as he speaks. Fresh tears threaten to spill from his eyes, but he blinks them away. Mark fights the urge to paw at the thundering ache in his chest. </p><p>Donghyuck is bathed in the late morning sun streaming in from the windows behind him. It makes him glow, like an apparition. But it is not the way the light hits that makes Mark want to kneel and repent for his sins. It’s the look in Donghyuck’s eyes, as his lips twitch into a sad smile. </p><p>“See you soon, Minhyung-ah.” </p><p>Donghyuck has already forgiven him. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mark doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry, so he settles for an Americano instead. He thinks he’s going crazy, seeing how perfectly the puzzle pieces fit together. It’s like Donghyuck knew he’d figure it out one day, and had already forgiven him long before he stepped out of that room, long before he knew he did anything wrong, and if he were to be so bold, long before they'd even met. It was a tale written in the stars by Donghyuck’s gods, and once again Mark wonders what else Donghyuck could have known? </p><p>For a second he wonders if Donghyuck had planned all of this, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in his words, planting them in his memories, littered in the sound of his voice, hoping Mark would see them one day and would stumble upon the gingerbread house at the end of the road. Donghyuck would be waiting for him the way he does on Thursday evenings when Mark has class at five, and Mark would fall in his arms with the relief of a man who has finally found home. </p><p>He lets his mind run wild for a while before reigning himself in, shaking his head at the sheer unlikelihood of it all. Inasmuch as he suspects the boy to be witching, it wasn’t like Donghyuck to orchestrate big convoluted plans. The younger man once said it was because he couldn’t be bothered, but Mark knows it’s really because he doesn’t need to try. Donghyuck is otherworldly in the way everything would fall naturally into place according to his will. </p><p>Even the way they met had been easy. No cliché meetings in a park in the middle of the night. No offering handkerchiefs like they do in dramas. Mark met Donghyuck with a cup of booze in hand and music in his ears, the same way Mark met literally everyone else in that newbie orientation party. He was being introduced to everyone he had to know, and the Donghyuck just happened to be one of the more active members of the org. He barely even caught his name, but it was okay. Donghyuck just laughed and said it again. The rest was history. </p><p>If they had met in any other situation, Mark feels they would have no trouble falling into step with each other just as they had that night. He didn’t know things the way Donghyuck did, but this time there is a palpable certainty in his gut. It doesn’t matter what it was, if they were idols in a different life or colleagues in a conglomerate or forced upon each other in an arranged marriage. Deep inside, Mark knows they would learn to love the way they did. Naturally, things would fall into their rightful place. </p><p>He can only hope that in at least one of those other lifetimes Mark knew better, that he wouldn’t take him this long to figure everything out. That the Mark in those lifetimes knew his own worth, calm in his head and strong in his heart, someone Donghyuck can depend on when times are rough. He hopes that they talk it through, whatever it is that doesn’t make sense or gets on their nerves, so at the end of the day they have each other in their arms and not ten years and thousands of miles apart. </p><p>Donghyuck deserves at least that much. A love that tries, a love that understands. A love that lasts longer than two seasons. </p><p>He hopes there is a lifetime that is good to both of them. Mark closes his eyes and wishes them well, wherever they are. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mark spends the rest of the flight staring out the window, making shapes out of the rapidly moving clouds. When his joints start to ache from the cold, he paces along the plane corridors to stretch his legs. He eats his lunch in silence, and this time he finishes the yogurt cup. It was strawberry. A young woman struggles to shush her crying infant a few rows ahead, and on Mark’s fifth lap walking up and down the plane he offers a finger to the baby boy who nibbles it before falling asleep. The woman thanks Mark with an embarrassed bow, and Mark resumes his trek around the plane. </p><p>It’s an hour before landing when Mark falls asleep again, tired from all the walking. He dreams he is on a beach, there’s no one around but seagulls flying overhead in a circle. It’s cold, which explains why the beach is empty, but the birds tell him a big storm’s coming. He wonders where he’s heard that before. </p><p>The damp sand scrunches at his feet, and Mark realizes he’s barefoot. He looks around to find his shoes but they’re nowhere in sight. There are only twigs and shells and kelp that have washed ashore. How did he get here? He has no idea but he figures he doesn’t care. It doesn’t look like he’s leaving anytime soon anyway. He starts walking along the shore. </p><p>He walks a couple of miles in a few seconds because it’s a dream and that’s just how it works. The landscape doesn’t change much, just water and a shore and then sand. But just as the waves were starting to gain momentum, splashing at his bare ankles, he spots a figure in the distance. </p><p>Mark keeps walking at his leisurely pace, occasionally stopping to check rocks that washed up ashore. The waves calm down again and he feels no rush. Time is his friend. He walks until he’s gotten close enough to see that the figure is a man, no taller than he was. He has his back turned to Mark and from here he can see the damp that has seeped into the bottom of his white shirt from when he must’ve sat in the sand, waiting. You’d think dream beaches didn’t have those inconveniences, but they do. Dream beaches give you beautiful skies and roaring waves but they also steal your shoes and make sure there’s a trace of sand everywhere, even in places where the sun doesn’t shine. </p><p>He is only a couple steps away when the man turns and suddenly Mark is faced with Donghyuck, looking every bit as beautiful as the day he left him. His hair is brown like it was when they met but the lines around Donghyuck’s eyes reveal the time gone by. . </p><p>Still, the years were kind to Donghyuck, and Mark just drinks in the sight. There is no shame in dream beaches, after all. He can look all he wants and no one would judge him. There are so many questions Mark wants to ask. How are you? What have you been up to? Are you eating well? He cannot decide, but it’s a good thing that dreams like to run its own course. Mark barely has to think before words are tumbling out of his mouth like a script. </p><p>“Did you wait long?” Mark continues to stare at the man in front of him, not knowing when he’d get the chance to see him again. Donghyuck looks back at him amused, one side of his lips twitching higher than the other as he snorts. It’s a dumb question, no doubt. Donghyuck always has that look on his face when the Mark says something stupid. </p><p>“I walked a lot while I was here,” Donghyuck kicks the sand under his feet as he starts walking. It’s slow, like an invitation. Mark accepts, and they walk along the shore side by side. “The whole stretch, front and back. It’s nice, but it gets old pretty quickly.”</p><p>“You could’ve just said yes.” Mark rolls his eyes and Donghyuck laughs. The light sound mixed with the roar of the waves puts Mark’s heart at ease and he finds himself laughing as well. </p><p>“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Mark hears himself ask after a couple beats pass in silence. It’s another stupid question, but this time Donghyuck nods. He doesn’t know how time passes in this dream beach but by the look on Donghyuck’s face, the sentiment is as true for him as it is for Mark. </p><p>It’s silent once again and Mark can’t help but feel like he’s asking the wrong questions. Dreams are usually crazy. You’re here one second and before you can even find your footing the scene changes and someone you haven’t seen in ages makes a cameo appearance. Mark supposes this dream got that last bit right, but he figures he’s been here for a while and still steps are steady and so is the view. His heart doesn’t race, and the shore stretches, looking like it’s here to stay. Maybe he shouldn’t be asking questions in the first place. </p><p>He hears Donghyuck ask him if he wanted to sit, but when he does there is no sand under his feet and he lands on a couch instead. The room is familiar but the sky has disappeared. He worries that Donghyuck has gone with it but he hears a light shuffling of feet, and when he whips his head to the source of the sound he sees Donghyuck walking circles around the room, the change in scenery not bothering him one bit. </p><p>He’s dressed in the same ensemble from the beach, but there is a look of concentration on his face as he takes purposeful strides along the perimeter of the room, inside the bathroom and out, between furniture and around the couch. When Donghyuck passes by him, Mark tugs at his wrist and the boy falls in a heap of limbs on his lap. His hair is purple. </p><p>“What are you doing? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Donghyuck asks with a whine. He doesn’t make a move to get out of his’s lap though, so Mark considers this a win. </p><p>“Well now you can be busy doing something else.” Mark says, propping Donghyuck to sit sideways so his legs are splayed out on the couch. Donghyuck’s arms wrap around Mark’s neck as he heaves a sigh. He smells like the sea. “If I think like this I’ll think too much,” he mumbles against Mark's chest. </p><p>Mark understands. It’s one of the first things he learned about Donghyuck. </p><p>At first he thought it was a nervous tick, the way he’d walk circles for long stretches of time with an impassive face. There’s not a lot of space in the room which makes it look a little silly, but Donghyuck told him it was important. Why? Because my body needs to be moving when my brain does its thing. What thing? Thinking. What about it? You ask a lot of questions, Mark Lee. You’re not answering any of them. It splits my attentional resources so I don’t think too much, it’s  a psych thing. Uh huh. And it’s good for my legs. I agree. </p><p>“Then stop thinking. How long have you been walking anyways?” Mark asks, wrapping his arms around Donghyuck’s torso. The heat from Donghyuck’s body permeates through the material of his shirt and Mark thinks this all feels too real to be a dream. </p><p>“Since you left for class,” Donghyuck replies, burrowing his head further in Mark’s chest. “You wouldn’t be back until 6.” </p><p>“I’m here though?” Mark figures it’s probably the dream doing its thing because the words are starting to not make sense. His time’s probably running out. </p><p>“Yeah but you’re not <em> here </em> here,” Donghyuck looks up at him and tightens his grip around Mark’s neck as if to stress his point. Mark can feel his breath on his neck as the Donghyuck fidgets with himself to sit up straighter on his lap. “You’re only here because I asked them for proof.” </p><p>“Proof?”</p><p>“That it’s gonna be worth it.” </p><p>Donghyuck looks at him and Mark feels himself stare right back. He doesn’t understand what he’s hearing but he knows it’s important. He keeps his mouth shut and waits for the Donghyuck to speak again. </p><p>“It’s March now, Mark. We don’t have that long,” Donghyuck whispers. “Two months? Three? They told me not to push it, but it’s so hard when you feel like this.” Donghyuck takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “It’s so hard when you feel like home.” </p><p>Mark opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. Donghyuck only gives him a knowing smile in return, and melts into Mark’s embrace. “But at least now I know they’re not shitting me.” </p><p>Mark wants to ask some more, but before he could speak a loud whirring blares in the distance. Their time’s running out. Donghyuck can only sigh. </p><p>“You have to go back now, Mark,” Donghyuck says as he cups Mark’s face in his hands, not wanting to let go. “But thank you for coming.” </p><p>“Let’s meet again, Donghyuck-ah.” </p><p>“I’ll always be walking, but I’ll be slow so that you’ll always catch me.” Donghyuck leans in and plants a soft kiss on the corner of Mark’s lips, a promise. </p><p>The room starts to shift around them and one by one the furniture fades, the walls disappear and the lights start to dim. Mark doesn’t wanna go, but the humming grows louder and the ground feels like it’s tilting on its axis. </p><p>“I’ll see you soon.” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mark lands at Incheon International Airport at 7:20 AM on a cold Monday morning. He is in and out of immigration in under five minutes, and finds himself entering the first store he sees to buy a fresh set of clothes. With a smile and a flash of a card he makes his way into the airport lounge for a shower, grateful for the feeling of hot water on his skin. He finds breakfast in a deli shop, and Mark takes this downtime to search for a hotel, ignoring the messages from Johnny asking him what he’s up to and if he’s died. </p><p>He finishes his meal in record time and manages to book a nice boutique hotel five minutes away from the heart of the city. He stands to throw his trash in the bin and asks one of the employees the quickest way out of the airport. She blushes and tells him to go down two escalators and walk straight to the big glass doors. He thanks her with a smile and goes on his way. </p><p>His steps are light and easy, soles comfortable in the soft of the slip-ons he picked up last minute while checking out. Incheon Airport feels familiar in all the ways of a homecoming. The boards that point him to the exit painting like welcome home sign in his head, and Mark can’t help but feel like an ungrateful son who hasn’t been back to visit the family home in ten winters. He expects a thorough scolding, a blow to the back of his head, or even a cold shoulder, but there is only warmth. </p><p>Seoul wraps him in a hug he knows he doesn’t deserve, but it shushes him and tells him it’s okay. It should have been impossible in the glacial chill of the airport, but the warmth continues to envelope him, scolding him for wearing so little, telling him to eat some more. In his mind he says sorry, and the air hugs him again. </p><p>Light fills every corner of the room and there is constant chatter in a language he thought he had forgotten, but somehow still knew by heart. Mark feels himself sigh in relief, the tension on his shoulders melting away with every step. He feels welcome, a jarring contrast to the cold reception some eleven hours ago from a place he once thought to be home. </p><p>Right before he reaches the big glass doors, Mark finds himself slowing to a stop. Outside, the world looks bright, the autumn foliage painting the clear morning in reds and oranges. The branches of the trees are thick at the base, tapering out into fingers that sway in the wind, as if beckoning him to come out and touch. </p><p>He said he wouldn't, once upon a time, hours ago thousands of feet up the air.</p><p>But as if to answer him the leaves shake in laughter, colors blurring into a flame that reminds Mark of old mistakes and old faces and old burn scars. His hand jerks away by instinct, and in his mind he knows it's not too late to turn back if he wanted. It would only be a matter of making up his mind and running with it. </p><p>But he doesn’t have to run. </p><p>His arms don’t have to fall off from the heat of the desert sun and his lungs don’t have to burn the way his fingers did many years ago. He doesn’t have to stack his boxes so high and he doesn’t have to burrow in more sheets to be safe. </p><p>All Mark needs to do is walk. Slow and steady, the way he did on that shore. There is no rush. He can take his time, looking for his shoes in the sand and stopping by every now and then to look at rocks. Time is his friend. All roads lead to Rome. </p><p>He stands there, unmoving, long enough that the guard by the door looks at him with questioning eyes. The man opens the door as a suggestion, but Mark takes it as a sign. </p><p>He takes his first steps out of the airport and into the world. The air is cold in his lungs, but it does not burn. The man gives him a small smile as he leaves, and with a curt nod Mark sets out in search of the sun. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>so i finally got this thing out of my system!! hurrah!! </p><p>this was borne out of the many hours i spent walking around my house listening to random playlists in hopes to keep active during the quarantine. tho i wasn't actually intending to put that walking bit in the story itself, this thing kind of just spiraled out of control after the first sentence. this is written absolutely nothing like how i imagined it at the beginning, but i think it has its own merits. </p><p>thank you for making it this far! you have no idea how relieved i am that this project is finally over lmao i am never writing again.</p><p>edit: finally made <a href="https://twitter.com/whitenoisce">twt</a> and <a href="https://curiouscat.me/whitenoisce">cc</a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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